This Vicious Cabaret
by Vaudeville
Summary: Fourth in the Volition series: V was hurting. Evey was gone. V was bleeding. Evey had betrayed him. V had been shot… And Evey was gone.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.

WARNING: Blood, violence, detail and treatment of injury.

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"RAAH!" V bellowed as he tore the mattress up from the bed frame. No matter. There would no longer be anyone to occupy it. He heaved it to the side, toppling a few stacks of books as he went. No matter. There would no longer be anyone to reorganize those, either. Next, he yanked the frame itself from the floor. With a snarl, he bashed it against the wall, the splintered wood adding to the carnage around him.

He fell to his knees, moaning as his world began to spin. He could hardly breathe, so thick was his rage. He clutched his shoulder, the searing pain intensified by the pounding of his heart. V was hurting. Evey was gone. V was bleeding. Evey had betrayed him. V had been shot…_ And Evey was gone._

The crack from Lilliman's fired pistol resounded in his ears. That disbelieving outcry to his most beloved traitor lingering yet in his throat. A choking sob racked his body as he grasped the battered bed frame and hoisted himself to his feet. The room tilted and he nearly lost his balance, his equilibrium altered. Moments passed before he thought to move or breathe.

Out into the hall he staggered, his heart stumbling along with his footing. He hesitated and steadied himself, a hand on the partition between Evey's room and his office. There! He kept all of his medical supplies in the infirmary just through his office. He took the ring of keys from his belt and fumbled through them with clumsy fingers, his eyes unable to focus, his mind unable to interpret the designs that distinguished each key from the next.

He was shaking and had lost all control on his short, erratic breathing. The keys fell from his hands. _I'm going into shock._ He groaned in defeat as he slid down to the floor, then clamped his hand over the wound on his shoulder again, hissing in pain and flattening himself to the wall.

The mask came off, Guy bouncing violently across the stone floor, scuffing his cheek. His mop of hair was soon to follow. V took the fingertips of a glove between his teeth and pulled it off. He spat it away and leaned his naked head back against the wall behind him, choking on the air he was trying to swallow. _Relax. Breathe._ He tried to take a deep breath but a shock wave of pain shook his body, and he coughed so hard that he seen after tasted blood on his lips. He looked down, fearing that the bullet had punctured his lung. All he could see was his cloak and doublet soaked in his own vital fluids. _Lord, how did I lose so much blood?_

"Evey," he answered himself, barely uttering both of the syllables before gasping again. _She has bewitched you, _his mind taunted._ She will be the death of you._ After the Bishop had shot him, and after V had rewarded his cries for mercy with death, he had hurried back to the Gallery to see if Evey had returned. _She doesn't even know where the Gallery is, you fool._ Needless to say, he had lost control of both his temper and his awareness of the severity of his injury. How he made it home, he wasn't sure. He reasoned dully that he must have pushed himself on pure adrenalin and rage. _She will be the death of me... Must stop the bleeding._

V removed his cloak, which he had wrapped tightly around his shoulder. It seemed a good idea at the time, once he was well enough away from the Abbey, to cease the bleeding before he left a trail all the way to the Gallery. He traversed as quickly as he could manage back to his home, brooding all the while, thinking of Evey and her wicked betrayal. He drove his fingers into the wound, a little harder than he had intended, shrieking in pain. He removed his other glove and tore his thick doublet wide open. His undershirt was drenched, as was his chest, he found, as he tore the shirt and armored vest away as well. _This sodding thing isn't bulletproof._ He noted that he would have to remember to get some better armor.

Blood was flowing steadily from his heaving breast. No arterial bleeding. He couldn't locate the wound from amongst the smeared blood and as he wiped it away with the remainder of his torn shirt, he realized that the hole itself was not within his line of sight at all, but just beneath his clavicle. He rested his head against the wall behind him as he pressed a clump of his shirt into the wound.  
_  
How could she do this to me? After everything? How could she?!_ He groaned,_ Stop this. You need to focus on not passing out. You'll never make it the infirmary if you fall unconscious._ He nodded softly, allowing the logical side of his mind win out over his emotional side.

V sat in the dark hallway for a few moments, trying to control his breathing, applying pressure to his shoulder. A few minutes passed before he was able to regain control over his physical pain. He took up the keys and rose to his feet again. The bleeding had slowed for the time being and he had regained at least a little control over his breathing. On the other hand, however, his loathing and malice, buried deep within his psyche as they were, slowly began to escalate.

He unlocked the door and stepped into the dark corridor that lead to his office. Several doors along this hall lead to rooms where V did most of his work. One room was full of chemicals, another full of ancient weaponry and sword collections. Another full of various tools used for interrogative torture. He had never allowed Evey in any of these places. There were many an item in these secret compartments of the Gallery that V had long ago decided never to reveal to her. One room was filled with a number of art pieces which he hadn't yet circulated through the Gallery since inviting Evey into his home, but that he still visited frequently. He had meant to expand the Gallery and make room for these priceless works or art, but alas, his vendetta came first. Now... It didn't really seem to matter anymore. He gritted his teeth as he realized that, even if he had wanted to share these secrets with Evey in the future, he could never do it now. That opportunity was gone.

He sighed as he entered the central room that was his office. It was dark, a row of screens on a large black desk lighting the room with an eerie white glow. He hesitated before them for a moment. His link to the outside world. Fate in his own home. He brushed his bare fingers over the panel of buttons that directed his control over these media. The urge to smash them with his fist was overwhelming. V would find her again. He hadn't a doubt that he had not seen the last of Evey Hammond. She wasn't rid of him that easily. He jabbed a key and watched as each monitor lit up, each with its own broadcast. His vision spanned all of London. V would find her. And he would make her... Make all of them pay.

He passed by the rest of the monitors without second glance as he made his way toward another door in the back of the room. He unlocked it and stepped inside, turning on the overhead light to reveal a large space quite unlike the rest of the Shadow Gallery. His infirmary resembled a standard operating room. It was bright and plain. White cabinets and walls, a stainless steel sink and a large mirror mounted on one side. The examination table was positioned at an angle in the center of the room, fitted with white linen and a stiff pillow. V had always been at a loss as to why he had built such a room to begin with, for he would just as soon dismember the next person that came at him with a syringe. He hated this room, but it had served its purpose many, many times over the years.

He moved further within to the sink and turned on the water. He removed and tossed his soiled doublet and vest into a nearby bin, and then carefully peeled away his handcrafted bandage. The bleeding had stopped as far as he could tell, though his chest stiff with wet and dried blood. He washed himself up, turning slightly to watch himself in the mirror on the far wall, trying to clean the wound as best he could without dripping water and blood everywhere. He wincing as he patted the area dry and quickly dressed it with gauze. He coughed again, a splatter of blood coloring the white counter. _Coughing blood, _he thought slowly, trying to remember what this particular symptom was a sign of, wheezing lightly._ Punctured lung... right._

He swore softly as he trudged to one of the the closets next to the sink. He dragged out a respirator and put the mask over his mouth, cranking up the oxygen while he searched frantically for a chest tube. He remembered the first time he had punctured lung and how much it hurt to put in his own chest tube. It had happened six times to him since and it never got easier. His lung had already collapsed, he could tell by the feel of it. His chest was filling with air and the pressure was suffocating him. He was beginning to fear that the other one was about to collapse as well.

Once he found what he needed, he trudged back to the sink, dragging the oxygen tank with him. He yanked open a drawer, fumbling to open the iodine swap and smearing it across his rip cage. He dropped the scalpel on the floor, panicking as he started to hyperventilate. _Quickly. Quickly!_ he urged, so fearful of suffocating that he could hardly grasp the other scalpel in the drawer. He raised his arm, ignoring the pain in his shoulder and pressing his fingers into his ribs, counting the spaces between. _Five... Six... Seven! _Then without a second thought, he quickly punctured his side with the scalpel and slipped the chest tube in. He had no air left to cry out from pain, falling to his knees as he began feeling faint. But then he breathed as the tube drained the air between he lungs and his chest cavity, and his lungs filled on their own once again.

He was still for a few minutes, focusing on breathing and securing the one-way valve with shaky hands. "That was close," he muttered weekly, snorting painfully at his own dry humor. He leaned back against the cabinet below the sink and listened to the sounds of is own breathing. He chastised himself silently. He had wasted valuable time and had lost a lot of blood when he tore apart Evey's room, time and blood that he could have spent saving his own life. "Can't let yourself die yet, you old dog," he muttered to his blurry reflection in the steel oxygen tank. He saw himself flash a bright smile and heard himself laugh derisively. It wasn't funny. He had nearly died just then. Everything he had worked so hard for had almost ended in that moment. But the pure oxygen from the respirator and lack of blood made his head swim.

He stood again slowly and went about taping the chest tube to his side. He removed the respirator mask and trudged back to the closet and knelt down to open the cooler on the floor. Every time it came down to this, he commended himself for thinking about storing his own blood. He pulled a bag out and rose to his feet again. As he prepared an IV, he recalled the first time he had come back to the Shadow Gallery with a life-threatening injury and no blood to replace what he had lost. After that, he had read every medical book he could get his hands on. It seemed obvious really, that he should have spare blood around for self-transfusions. He slipped the IV catheter into his arm with surgical precision and squeezed some of the blood into his veins. It was uncomfortable, the feeling of the cold blood surging through him suddenly, but he knew from years of experience that it would soon pass and that he would be able to function again shortly. He sneered as he looked down at his arm. He had done this so many times that his arms had scars upon scars of needle holes. V smirked at the thought. Many of the holes hadn't even been placed by himself.

He put the respirator mask back on dragged everything with him to the examination table. He hung the bag of blood on the IV stand next to the bed and laid back. He was exhausted. Between emotional and physical stress, he could hardly stay conscious. Still, he knew he couldn't sleep yet. He needed to stay awake until he stabilized. His heart had slowed considerably, so much so that he couldn't feel his own pulse. If he had waited a few minutes longer, he might have died of shock. He hadn't removed the bullet from his shoulder yet, but he wasn't bleeding anymore, and he was breathing normally again. He closed the valve on the oxygen tank and took off the mask. It was making him lightheaded, and he needed to focus his mind.

It would probably do more damage than good to remove the bullet now, he reasoned, considering that it might cause more damage to his lung. He turned his thoughts over to the medical aspect of his position, which usually helped him stay awake and focus his thoughts. _I could leave it there but... _It disgusted him to consider that Lilliman would might still have any sort hold on him, even a mere bullet slug. _I need to take some antibiotics. _He didn't move, his body not willing to let him stand. His eyes drooped a little as his exhausted started to take over. "No," he whispered. _Need to stay awake._ His head lolled to the side and he reached out for the oxygen tank. He was going to pass out. He couldn't stop it now, but he needed to put the respirator back on.

_I'll be fine._ He finally gave in. _I'll only sleep for a little while..._ His body fell limp before he could reach the oxygen mask.


	2. Chapter 2

Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.

WARNING: Blood, violence, detail and treatment of injury.

-----

"V?"

V groaned and shook his head. He wasn't ready to be awake yet.

"V, wake up. Please!"

"Evey..." He opened his eyes and gazed into the most beautiful brown eyes he had ever seen. "Evey?" He sat up suddenly, nearly falling off of the exam table. "Hmn?" _What am I doing in the infirmary?_ He looked up at Evey who was staring at his chest. He looked down. He was naked. The gnarled skin over his chest, abdomen, and lap were covered in a thick flowing stream of blood. He remembered now. Lilliman had shot him. Evey had betrayed him and had run away... But, "You came back?"

She had tears in her eyes as she stepped toward him. She put her hands on his chest, the blood flowing over them and covering them completely. It oozed from his shoulder and dripped down from his toes onto the floor. "You're alive," she whispered in disbelief. He reached out to her and pulled her into his embrace. She was also nude. He held her close, burying his face into her hair. "He shot you? I heard it but... I was so scared, V."

He shushed her, rubbing his hands across the exquisite skin of her back. "Everything is going to be alright." The blood flooded the room, creeping up the walls and around him. He didn't really notice.

Evey pushed away from him lightly, just enough to look at him. "I love you." She kissed him tenderly, her hands moving up to his shoulders. V winced as her fingers brushed the bullet hole. She pressed her finger into the wound and he cried out, immobilized in pain and fear, incapable of stopping her as she reached her entire arm into his body and ripped out his heart. "I love you, V," she said again, her eyes nothing more than a pair of empty black orbs. The blood fell from the ceiling like a waterfall, dousing everything in the room with its crimson madness. Evey raised a gun to the still-beating heart in her hand and pulled the trigger.

V screamed, right into his waking nightmare. His eyes shot open as pain took over his entire body. He was trembling, whether from affliction or chill, he couldn't tell. He tried to sit up but his muscles contracted against him, the shock of his throes so great that he could hardly move. He turned his eyes over to look at the IV stand. It wasn't there. He touched his shoulder and was surprised to find that the wound was dry, scabbed. His side ached, and as he reached to check the chest tube, he found the most recent cause of his physical torment: the chest tube was gone.

He lifted his head, slowly and painfully rolling himself over. There was a fair bit of blood on the table, clinging and dripping from his sides. The IV stand was across the room on the floor, tangled up in the IV that was supposed to be in his arm, and the chest tube that was supposed to be in his side. He must have knocked it over in his sleep... Or rather thrown it across the room. The blood bag was nowhere to be seen, but the massive crimson puddle on the floor spoke for itself. No wonder he had dreamed of there being blood everywhere.

_The dream..._ It came back to him suddenly, and with head-splitting precision. "Evey..." He looked down the length of his body. He was still clothed from the waist down. He could still feel his heart pulsating in his chest; that hadn't been stolen away from him. But he could also still smell the scent of his love's skin. He pushed himself up into a sitting position, hissing as the muscles is abdomen flexed around the gash in his ribs. "My love," he snarled, slowing sliding off of the table to stand.

He stumbled toward the mirror, his hands leaving smears on the glass as he held himself against it. He looked a horror. Pupils dilated to the point of concealing nearly the whole of his iris, skin as fiery hot to the touch as it appeared, muscles tight with cramp and stress. V hated mirrors sometimes. The way they always seemed to hold his alter-ego within, while outwardly displaying the blackness of his heart. He looked down, ashamed. _Evey needed not this mirror nor a glimpse of me at all to know the beast within._

He turned away quickly, falling heavily against the cool reflective glass. "Morphine," he groaned as he staggered to the sink, nearly tearing the door off of the cabinet. It seemed to take forever to find the bottle, prepare the syringe and inject the wonderful drug into his veins. Grunting as he slid to the floor, his body slowed down and enjoyed the release. But not for long. He needed to keep his mind fresh, needed to keep working, so that when he passed out again he could actually rest. He hoisted himself to his feet, standing still for a moment while his knees rebelled. The pain was only slightly abated, but the morphine made it tolerable. Workable. That chest tube needed to go back in. And he needed that bullet out of him. Now.

He reached above his head into the cabinet, noting how he no longer winced as he moved. He yanked down a few bottles, tools and supplies, and dropped them onto the instrument tray next to the sink. Any other time he might commend himself for having such an impressive collection of medical equipment. Any other time he might have smiled at all the perfectly ordered and sanitized... He coughed, struggling to take a deep breath. Any other time he might have cared.

He pulled the instrument stand with him to the examination table and he sat down atop it. He'd have to do things right this time, once more smearing iodine over his ribs and the small puncture hole he had made earlier. Wincing he used a pair of forceps to reopen the gash in his side. He winced. _I should have numbed it first. _It was too late now, as he was already sliding in a second chest tube. Naturally this one hurt much worse as some of the tissue had been torn when the first tube was ripped out. What was more, V had to stitch this one in place. He wasn't looking forward to that, not at all. He struggled to thread the needle, glancing up at himself for a moment in the mirror. _What the hell are you looking at?_ his reflection sneered. V looked away, willing his shaking hands to steady if only for one moment. "Almost done," he assured himself breathlessly, adding a few stitches around the tube, then securing it with tape and gauze.

He took a deep breath as he finished, letting it out as he used the excess gauze to wipe any undried blood off of his chest. _Step one, complete._ He looked up at the hideous man in the mirror again. "Step two..." He got to his feet again and slowly pulled the examination cart with him to the mirror. _I really need to get a bench to put here, _he thought as his legs shook. There was still that grimy puddle of blood behind his feet. He grounded himself in a firm stance and prepared for his next task. Slipping in his own blood was the last thing he needed right then.

He blinked a few times, trying to focus his drug-heavy eyes, looking at the bullet hole for the first time. It looked like it had just missed his clavicle. He was lucky that it hadn't shattered his shoulder blade. He tried to find satisfaction in this, but his collapsed lung wouldn't have it. Sure, it had missed bone, but it had nicked and deflated a vital organ, diminishing his air supply. He inched closer to the mirror so as to see himself better, lifting his chin and curving his shoulders down, stifling a grunt as the skin and muscle pulled taut. _How did that bloody bastard manage to hit me?_ "Evey," he reminded himself. _I was distracted by Evey. I wont let that happen again. _He smirked and brushed the gash with the pad of his finger, grimacing lightly. He looked at his reflection, taking in the sight of himself. He felt like a fool. "She's made a fool out of me," he conceded aloud. "Me!"

He kicked the IV stand away from him, satisfied only when it stuck the other wall with a shattering force. _You can't really blame her,_ taunted the imaginary fiend that tortured his thoughts, smirking at him through the mirror. _She's terrified of you. _

V snatched an iodine swab and pressed it into the wound with an excruciating amount of force, biting his lip so hard that it bled too. Oh, how wonderfully it hurt. "She didn't used to be," he growled. She had finally had a glimpse of the demon he really was and had fled at the earliest chance. No, he really couldn't blame her, but he could still hate her for it.

His legs shook violently and he wasn't sure if he would be able to do this while standing, but he hadn't much choice. He poured a small dish of alcohol and removed the sanitary wrapping of the tools he had collected. "He who makes a beast of himself gets rid of the pain of being a man," he quoted wearily.

It was V's pain that made him complete. His existence, his vendetta, his hatred… And it was his hatred that drove him; it drove him to kill, to avenge his losses, and to carry out his vendetta. This was not the vendetta of the English people, nor of the tormented prisoners of the resettlement camps, no. This was_ his_ revenge, _his_ wrath that would tear down the hopes, dreams and lives of those who had snatched away his own. He sneered down at his own hands, his scarred, battered torso. Oh, how the Devil smiled upon him.

He had been a bit hasty to kill the bishop. V's vision clouded at the thought, his anger, decades old, seeding its way back into his thoughts. He had planned such a dramatic death for this man, this man who had turned a blind eye to the devastation that destroyed his world. V had yearned for the vaudevillian dance that had played about in his mind as he had planned the murder from the start.

But no. Things had changed. Evey had been involved. She had disregarded his plans, ignored his requests. She had deceived him. She had betrayed him. And Lilliman had placed his disgusting hands all over her, breathed his foul breath on her lips. Lilliman had nearly taken and abused what should have been only his, V's.

"Ahh!" he cried as he splashed the dish of alcohol over the bullet hole. He needed to keep this up. It was the only way he knew to continue. Build the pain, build the hate. V drew a pair forceps from the tray, pouring nearly the rest of the bottle of alcohol over them, then took a deep breath and turned to face himself once more. Chin up, shoulders down. Breathe…

Evey had betrayed him. V shoved the nose of the forceps into the bullet hole. He stifled a groan. The tip of the forceps quickly struck metal. Evey had broken his trust. V exhaled. He opened the forceps. He held his breath as he clamped onto the bullet. Evey had ruined them… _Him_. An anguished cry echoed throughout the alcoves of the Gallery. Metal clattered against metal as the bloody slug and forceps fell onto the tray._ She didn't love you._

"No!" V cried, packing the wound with gauze, his face contorted in pain as he struggled to breathe, struggled to stand on his own two feet.

_You didn't love her._

"Yes!" V's eyes shot up to his own reflection and he glared at himself, his trembling body stilling at once. If looks could kill... "Yes, I did… I do."

_You hate her._

"Yes," he hissed. and stumbled back from the mirror, turning away from his own reflection. "Yes..."

-----

"He who makes a beast of himself, gets rid of the pain of being a man." Hunter S. Thompson


	3. Chapter 3

Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.

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Given V's emotional state, it was astonishing that the stitches he had given himself were as neat and precise as they were. Those that belonged to the tube in his chest had been administered during a much more secure state of mind, and they were nowhere near as expertly placed. What an odd phenomenon, that his rage made him more efficient than if he were at peace. His inner turmoil never failed to pinpoint his mission, motive and method. When he transformed his visceral torment into something objective, he could not be stopped. His temper tempered him, and as much as it sickened him, he found that physical pain was just as powerful a motivator as emotional pain. They were interchangeable and lethal when combined.

V sighed, as he fingered the mushroomed slug, dropping it on the kitchen table. He had been sitting there, thinking, for the better part of an hour. Thinking about _her_. He brought himself down from his manic hatred, filing that darker side of his psyche, and saving it for later. He would use it to drive him to some other purpose, some other end. It was systematic, this mode of directing himself. Simple and effective, just the way he liked things. _Unlike her._

Earlier, as he washed himself, rinsing and sponging the blood from his skin, he realized that there was no practical use to hating Evey. She had nothing to give or to take from him. Her existence was inconsequential when pitted against his own, yet solace was unattainable. If he allowed himself to hate her, then she would surely pervade his thoughts at every other flair of anger. If he forgave her, as he ardently wished to, then he would continue loving her, as he feverishly longed to, but his pain would continue, again with no use. Love and Hate, while often complimentary, revolved a vicious circle around this troubled man. Either of the polar emotions would be destructive. He was torn.

V had been holding back since she had entered his life, afraid to show his true colors. He had raised his voice to her a couple times, certainly hurt her, even physically in his pursuit of control. And the guilt that followed... He had never felt so sorry for anything in his life, not while blowing Larkhill and his body to hell, while delivering justice to the pedophilic priest who pleaded mercy, nor for any other of the wicked things he had done. But losing his temper at his little Evey made soul bleed.

It was not a hard learned lesson, that one must control their temper in particular company, but applying it and accepting the consequences were another thing. Feeling hurts. He had hardly experienced any of those more tender emotions in all the years of his recollection and the way Evey made him feel was addictive, dangerously so. Perhaps he had never been hiding his true colors. Perhaps Evey was the splash of color to his blank canvas. He imagined the hues running off, dripping away, until the white solitude was all that remained. He wanted to bleed colors.

V propped his bare feet up on the adjacent chair, smirking bitterly. He had been concerned after leaving his bedroom, freshly bathed and quite undressed, that Evey might see him without a shirt, wig and mask. He found himself hoping that she would walk through that door. He wondered what he would do. He wondered what he would have been doing right now if she hadn't betrayed him. He wouldn't have been hurting. He wouldn't have been cold, or bleeding, or nearly suffocating.

He could almost see her, seated across from him, eating whatever he had fixed for dinner, curled pigtails bouncing from her repulsive pink bows, cheeks rosier than was possible with whorish makeup that cheapened even her natural beauty. The image disturbed him and he tried to push it away, but the memory of preparing her crept into his thoughts.

Her already pallid features blanched a shade whiter when he brought the sugary-sweet outfit to her. "You can't honestly expect me to wear that," she had said, whining his monosyllabic name when he insisted.

"I don't want to _see_ you in it any more than you want to _be_ in it," V had reassured her harshly. Wait... No, he hadn't actually said that to her, merely thought it. Why would he want to see _his_ Evey dressed in such a degrading, perverting fashion? What he actually said was something along the lines of, "Come now, Evey. I promise that you wont have to wear it any longer than is necessary."

The fact that she looked quite perfectly half her age was worse enough, but he had to remind her that a child prostitute would not be wearing a brassiere, had knelt down before her to adjust the shortest of short skirts on her hips and ruffle the white frills about her smooth thighs. And he had coached her on what to say, how to say it, to pout her lips and wink seductively. He had been so extremely aroused from the moment he saw her in it-- and it aroused him now just to think of it-- that he had needed a moment to regain his self-control on the rooftop of the Abbey before making his entrance, and had almost been too late to save her from further violation...

_What in the world was I thinking? What was I trying to accomplish? Her absolute humiliation? _His self disgust nearly made him retch. He felt humiliated. He missed her desperately all of a sudden. He wanted to hold her and apologize, to make up for his mistakes. _Of course_ she had left him. How could she _not_? He didn't deserve another chance to make things right. He had _violated_ her. He had cheapened her, used her, ruined and damaged her. _What have I done?_

V wandered aimlessly through the Gallery, fighting to control himself _yet again_, fighting the urge to destroy something. "Pathetic," he growled, sneering at his own ridiculous sense of self conflict. The entire thing was pathetic. His pathetic vendetta and his pathetic gallery. His pathetic love for a pathetic shadow of a woman. His pathetic want of her, and his pathetic effort to convince himself that he didn't need her. His pathetic rampage and pathetic stitches and chest tube taped to his abdomen. He wanted to yank it out again, but his pathetic conscience called this impulse pathetic and he laughed.

The light was still on in Evey's bedroom and it shone through to the hallway. For a brief moment, he hesitated, wishing, hoping, _praying_ that he would find her there. That she had slipped in while he was passed out in the infirmary, and simply hadn't made her presence known. He walked up and stood in the doorway. He would find her inside, laying across the wrinkled sheets of her unmade bed, reading Austin or Wilde of something, amongst the piles of mountains of books that she had been organizing for him since Christmas. He would knock politely on the door and she would look up at him -- he rapped his knuckles against the door -- she would smile and invite him in -- he stepped into the room, over splintered wood and torn, disrespected literature -- he would sit by her on the bed and offer his words, thoughts, company, comfort... himself -- he slid to the floor in silence. She wasn't coming back.

-----

Alas, I have updated again! I planned on posting more often, but my mind has recently been taken over by a little redheaded sociopath, and V has been sitting politely to the side, waiting until I have the time to juggle both men's personas at once, haha. Finals are next week and after that I'm doing nothing but writing and working the entire summer, so expect a lot from me around here. V and Rorschach are surely going to be in competition for my affections, but V is at the top of my list. I've missed him! This took a lot out of me to write, hence it's shortness. There will be more like this to come, unfortunately. This is not going to be a happy fic, but V and I have been considering the idea of an AU story further along in this fic series if anyone is interested. There doesn't seem much action in his fandom anymore, but I'm not ready to quit yet! Any feedback is appreciated as always. It's 3 AM so excuse any typos, or point 'em out and I'll fix them once I'm able. Thanks for reading! Please review!


	4. Chapter 4

Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.

WARNING: Generally unpleasant topics, including: references to murder, genocide, and sexual assault, plus a dash of blood-- nothing you haven't come to expect at this point in the story.

-----

V sat still, breathing slowly and calmly as he switched off the television. Lewis Prothero's death had just been televised on the evening news, and V's eyes were glued to Evey. He had watched her closely from the first word of the announcement only minutes ago; he regarded her as she watched with interest, then as she tensed up, trying to look at him without really doing so, catching the movement of his arm lowering to the sofa again as he lifted the remote to shut down the entertainment system.

Evey was fidgeting. She must have known something wasn't quite right. She turned to V slowly now as the broadcast had finished and the screen was blank. She had a hard time looking at him, her body growing abnormally still as it always did when she was aware of_ his _awareness of her shaken nerves. She hadn't been this anxious around him in quite some time.

Silence passed between them as Evey slowly lifted her eyes, settling on V's elbow, then his shoulder, but not on the mask, not meeting his own eyes. _It is as if she doesn't want me to see her suspicion,_ V mused. He knew what he would find there as she asked if he had taken her ID: an implicit suggestion of its, and therefore, _his_ relation to Prothero's 'apparent heart failure.'

V offered her a choice of the truth, as well as that of a lie. Either way Evey would know what had happened. After everything that they had been through together, V was no longer going to sugarcoat things for her. In fact, he was quite prepared to make himself as absolutely clear as possible as to what he had done. He simply waited for her request.

She chose neither the truth nor lies, but stood up from the sofa and stumbled into a slight accusation, posed in the form of a question: "Did you have anything to do with... _That_?"

V almost felt indignant. She spoke of _that_ as if she already had some preconceived notion of what _it_ was. Heart failure? Foul play? She obviously weighed the odds of the latter more heavily than the former. After all, the newswoman _was _lying, wasn't she? _There's no sense in beating around the metaphorical bush then, is there?_ "Yes, I killed him," V told her, the words rolling out of his mouth as if he were telling her that he preferred Earl Grey over Darjeeling, because the former had such a pleasant aroma, and, my, didn't she agree?

That cinder of hopeless panic blazed once again in Evey's eyes. V had not seen it within her for months. He figured that he should probably reach out to her, to comfort her in some way, but he refused. A part of him was enjoying his victory too much to let it fall apart into halfhearted apologies that Evey didn't deserve. After all, this had nothing to do with her, and if he had somehow fallen short of her expectations, then there was nothing he could do to console her.

What _did_ Evey expect of V, anyhow? If such an accusation as '_that_' was to be laid against him, he wondered if he ought to know upon which scale he was being judged. Certainly, his wrongdoings could not be measured against those of ordinary men. Had Evey forgotten that first night so soon? When she had questioned V's sanity within five minutes of knowing him? Her first impression had been spot on. He was certainly quite the amiable lunatic, but he also heavily, skillfully, and willfully armed.

Indeed, V had appeared out of nowhere, quoting Shakespeare and brandishing a dagger. He had easily disposed of the three _ordinary_ men who had threatened to rape and murder the poor girl in a mere matter of seconds and with such speed, as Evey had told him later, that she could hardly see him. With one swipe, V had certainly busted that fingerman's jaw, practically bludgeoned him to death with one blow of a steel truncheon. Then, he had come back to Evey's trembling form, only to quote Einstein and his own manic alliterations, and to lead her off to blow up the Old Bailey, promising music and an orchestra. Crazy person _indeed_. _Then,_ within hours of this absurd incident, he had taken over the BTN tower with bombs strapped to his chest, convicting costumes for all present, and a broadcast calling the people of London to fight a tyrannical government. After_ all _of that, what did Evey take him for? A pacifist?

V shook himself out of those ridiculous thoughts, withholding a slight chuckle as he focused on the matter, the _woman,_ at hand. Yes, he was feeling much too smug to get up and comfort Evey now. He had no real reason to, except for that tender part of him, that aching need which drove him to try to make everything in her world beautiful. But no... No, no, no. If it were for anything else, if he had inadvertently hurt her with misspoken words or had been insensitive in some respect that brought her pain, then yes, of course he would do what he could to make up for it. But not this time. Not when he was so righteously vindicated. He was not about to apologize for the truth. And murder-- Well, murder wasn't something that he could fix with a chaste kiss and a warm embrace, even when it was completely justified, as was this particular instance.

V could see Evey's hand shake as it failed to brush a strand of hair across her brow. He was surprised at her, that she was still standing there and that she had not merely fled to her bedroom as was her usual practice and when she was even a fraction less upset than now. There had been quite a comfortable shift in their mannerisms toward each other. Where V had initially been far more comfortable with Evey's company than she was of his, over the last few months, it had become quite the opposite. And now they had finally reached a happy medium where they knew their own limits as well as those of their companion, and they had learned to become quite conscious of when they crossed those boundaries. It was clear by Evey's behavior that V had stepped over the line somehow, but the fact that she had not turned her back to him yet was intriguing. _She wants answers.__ Ask and you shall receive, my sweet Eve. _He smiled at his own rhyme, waiting for her to take action. Oh, how he loved this game of 'figure me out.'

Evey paced, muttering softly to herself as if she had forgotten to hide her agitation, as if she had forgotten that V was there at all. It reminded him of times when he had become so consumed by his own thoughts that nothing else penetrated. He wondered just how deeply Evey's consciousness was currently seeded into her thoughts and decided to test it. "You're upset," he remarked at last.

Evey snapped at him, not surprisingly, her attention brought back to him in a wave of anger, spitting the obvious in his face. This intrigued him further. She had been waiting for _him_ to speak? And for what? For him to absolve himself? He had no such intention. He wondered if anything he could have said would have been appropriate in Evey's eyes. It wasn't as if he would have gotten a better answer if he had simply asked her what was the matter. Probably the same answer, in fact, though he was certain her incredulity could have risen another level. It would have been an answer that he already knew, to what would have been a gravely stupid question coming from a man who had just admitted murder, and who also happened to be the most revered man in all of London. He couldn't have such a slur on his reputation as asking silly questions.

At the same time, V failed to see why Evey was so upset. _What, _indeed, _was_ bothering her? Did she know this person, Lewis Prothero? This revolting, vainglorious excuse of a man who watched himself while he showered, forty times larger than life on three walls surrounding? Who took the voice of London herself and with it, vomited out the masticated chunks of what it was to be an upstanding Englishman or even a decent human being? This man who, twenty years before, had been no different: far too concerned with how well his uniform fit over his fat, pitiful form, born of richness and unbridled self-indulgence? Far too interested in his own monstrous decadence to give a second thought as he turned a blind eye to the murder, rape, and genocide that he promoted, oblivious to the mountains of human carcasses that piled around him?

V took a deep breath, willing away the ire that boiled in his blood. Evey couldn't have known. If she had, she would have been celebrating in this victory as well. He couldn't blame her ignorance of the follies of their country's most prominent and influential characters, not when so few others knew, especially not this maggot, not since he was only a minor player in the cast of cannibals. Evey must have been only a few years out of swaddling clothes when this secret holocaust destroyed V's and so many others' lives; she perhaps hadn't even been walking, or born for that matter, when the wheels were set into motion and England was shoved to the dirt like an indecent lover, kneeling with her mouth open wide, accepting and choking on whomever would take the bait.

He doubted Evey's ability and willingness to accept the truth. Even if he told her what Prothero and so many others had done, the actions that had signed their death warrants long ago, he doubted she would believe him. After all, how does one accept a truth that is so drastically different than their reality? Ignorance is bliss if you are the one doing the ignoring. Revealing all was decidedly out of the question. Evey wouldn't understand. She _couldn't _understand. V, himself, could hardly begin to compare, so stark was the difference between his experience of life to her own. The world that V had been born into-- one of fire, needles, terrors, and malady-- was nothing like Evey's world of distilled restraint, threats, curfews and black bags. Presently their worlds were drastically different, even as V attempted to integrate Evey into his life. Evey didn't know the world as explicitly as V did, and he worked hard that she never would. His was the action, hers the potential-- a potential for great things he hoped.

V shifted slightly in an attempt to draw Evey's adverted eyes; he didn't like how upset she was becoming. He needed her to look at him, for her to see how calm he was, aloof even. He _needed_ her, for once, to take comfort in the lull of his voice as he knew she often did. He wanted her to see how, with every passing moment, he grew more relaxed, more at peace with what he had just revealed to with her, despite everything that remained unsaid. Even now, everything was as it had always been. In their world away from the world, their land of pleasures and happenstances, nothing had changed. Yet, V could see that, as the moments passed and as he become more and more composed, Evey became that much more disturbed.

"I might have killed the fingermen that attacked you but I heard no objection then," V told her calmly. He held out his hand out when Evey's gaze met his own, inviting her back down to the couch for a casual discussion, taking that familiar role of tutor once again. They rarely met eye to eye unless it was on Evey's terms and he hoped with time that he could bring her to see things from his perspective. He could never bring himself to subject her to the grim reality of the nature of his vendetta, but he hoped, if just this once, to bring about a sort of amnesty or a shell of understanding as to why he took such actions as these. He wanted to give her a taste, a crumb of discernment made a bit sweeter by example of their shared experience, that night when he had first learned her name. It was a feeble attempt at best, but he knew he staked a good argument.

Evey barked a reply at him, clearly too shaken to even consider taking his hand and joining him on the couch. V sighed, his hand falling to his lab, and he tried again, his voice smooth and eloquent. "Violence can be used for good," he added, tossing in more words to associate with his actions. _Killed, attacked, violence_, and now, _good_, all with implication of his protection over her, even at the cost of the lives of others.

"What are you talking about?" Evey whimpered, starting to back away. She was practically cowering away from him, like a guilty child to the hand of discipline, yet there hadn't been a even hint of menace in his voice. Perhaps V was teaching the wrong lesson, whose consequences were greater than he had anticipated. His heart fell. This wasn't like their usual game; Evey wasn't playing along... Was she?

V wanted to comfort Evey now, to hold her until her anxiety melted away, but he feared her departure should he move._ Have patience, Chap. Be clear. Absolute. Concise. _"Justice." He marveled at her sudden composure at this, at the 'oh' that she replied with and which rooted her in some sense of finality. V saw her eyes flick to the blank screen of the television, where they had just watched the tale of a man so desperate to achieve what he perceived as justice, that he had nearly lost everything that he loved... Yet hadn't in the end.

"I see," Evey said with that accusatory lilt to her voice. But that was a lie. She didn't see at all. She wasn't even looking. She had made up her mind about something and although V wasn't sure what that something was, he felt its revelation change the tone in the room. Once more he admired this young woman's ability to pull the rug out from under him, to make him gasp in awe of the simply complexities of human nature that he had missed while living in solitude. He wondered if Evey knew just how much power she had over him. If she did, she clearly didn't exercise it enough. He couldn't help but ponder the extent to which he affected her.

V tapped his fingers on the couch, forming the words he wanted to say in his mind, anticipating how he ought to say them, hypothesizing what sort emotional reaction they would elicit. He would start with logic. "There's no court in this country for men like Prothero," he muttered pointedly, certainly loud enough to be heard but with enough restrained venom, he hoped, to call to question: what constituted a man 'like Prothero?' Was he really so above the court that the only rightful sentence was death? Was this true when so many people were unjustly black bagged for merely batting a single eyelash out of line? V asked himself and answered all these questions, several times over the years and again now, without hesitation or compromise. He watched Evey closely, hoping to witness such questions in her as well.

_Prothero deserved to die,_ he wanted to add. He wanted to say it, but he could see Evey's thoughts play out on her expressive face and in her twitchy gestures. Every word he said stung her and he knew that he was tiptoeing the line, perhaps even edging over it now. He was unsure what Evey would do if he passed that final judgment.

Evey held his gaze, tears in her eyes. She looked at him like he was a stranger, like a man she had never known. V took pause. This was unexpected. _What am I doing?_ V had never before played such a dangerous game with Evey's emotions, and now, his sodding cheek had overshadowed any consideration for what he was doing to her. Game over. Evey looked as if at the end of her own rope, a standing at the edge of the cliff of faith-- faith in him, in herself, in everything-- and she was about to dive into the abyss. "And are you going to kill more people?" she asked with bated breath, her eyes widening as she stared at him in trepidation, lifting a hand to still her trembling lips.

V's heart broke. He saw it finally. It wasn't a matter of _who_ V had killed. It was that _he_, _V, _had done it. Evey's black knight, with his gentlemanly repose, weighted words of deceased poets, tender touch in weeks past... He was a _murderer_. It was all he had ever known and what a horror that had made him. He couldn't imagine what this traitorous little game was doing to her. _Game of 'figure me out.'_ His resolve finally softened. He understood now, why she became increasingly anxious as he grew more calm. Why she stayed there with him in a desperate attempt to keep this conversation going, to find out what she needed, despite her obvious fear of him.

V had been wrong. Everything was _not_ as it had always been. The way she looked at him, both figuratively and literally, had changed drastically in just a few short moments. He feared that he was beyond redemption. Even as he had descended upon her from shadows that first night, she had not appeared so utterly perturbed by his presence. He struggled to swallow around the lump in his through, watching her back yet further away as he sat forward on the sofa. He wanted to know the extent to which he affected her? _To late to abandon the game now, you fool._ He took a slow, deep breath, and averted his eyes... Then answered her.

Evey's hand muted the sob that slipped out when V answered in the affirmative. He looked back up at her, watching her, waiting for her to run away and leave him. For a sad moment, he considered letting her go for good, but he quickly shook the thought from his mind. He couldn't do that. He could _never_ let that happen. Even if Evey locked herself in her room for the rest of her life, never spoke to him again, loathed his existence, destroyed his art, his words, and even that vulnerable part of him that felt for her, it would be far better to keep her here safe with him than to leave her alone the wicked world above. Her descent into the wiles of the Devil, Sutler, and all his minions would mean the death of her... And of himself.

V regarded at Evey expectantly. She was still standing there, watching him as if waiting for him to say or do something. Her eyes glistened and she bit the tip of her finger, her breath shallow and labored. Again, V had to restrain himself from moving to hold her. He had nothing else to offer her. He couldn't apologize. He wanted to, but he didn't know what to apologize for. He wasn't sorry that he had killed the bastard. He _was _sorry that Evey found out. He was _sorry_ that she feared him, a murderer. He _was sorry_ that she was _still bloody standing there _and that he could do nothing but wait, listening to his own heart race. _She wants answers._

V had been about to say something when Evey finally moved her hand away from her lips. "Are you, er..." Her voice cracked and died away and he understood; she was struggling with her own self control, trying desperately to pull herself together. "Are you going to kill me?" she asked finally, her voice just barely above a whisper.

V's stomach jumped into his throat so quickly that he thought he might choke on it, his heart twisting in such a knot that it actually hurt. He was suddenly on his feet and Evey stumbled back a few steps, her eyes wide. "Evey, no! Of course not!" He took a tentative step towards her, reaching a gloved hand out to her, calling her into his embrace. How could she even _think _that? Did she not know how very much he cared for her? How much, to his surprise, he even_ loved_ her? How he made compromise after compromise within his home, his life, his plans, even his own _integrity_ just to accommodate her? To make her feel as safe as possible? He could never _dream_ of harming her! _What have I done? I have ruined everything!_

V took another step toward her, staring into her frightened eyes, seeing the reflection of his white mask envelope her dark irises. He touched her hip as he moved to embrace her and she yelped as if he had hit her. "No, don't!" Evey cried, backing against the wall in panic. V put his hands up in a submissive gesture and took a step away, shaken deeply with alarm. "You _would_ say that," she hiccupped though her tears, "whether you intended to or not!"

"Evey, please," V begged. Forget his pride and his vindication. His heart was breaking as he watched the trust Evey once held in him slip away like sand between his fingers, unable to do anything to stop it. He slowly reached out for her again but before he could even brush a lock of hair from her cheek, she was turning away to flee.

Evey screamed bloody murder when V grabbed her mid-stride, hauling her into his arms. She struck him with her fists, smashing the hard steel mask into his face; his vision went white and he tasted blood before she stopped. Her fists pounding against his chest met the rhythm of his racing heart but it grounded him further. He refused to let her go. He couldn't bear to. Even when Evey kneed him in the groin, he held fast, gasping into her neck as they both sunk to the floor.

"Please, Evey, please," V choked, his voice strained as his grip around her tightened, shock waves of pain resonating through him. Evey struggled for only a few moments more before she descended into desperate tears, exhaustively shoving at him and then falling against him bodily as she gave in. She broke down in his embrace, rubbing her face into his chest, the loose gray shirt stained black as it absorbed her tears. Evey's will to fight vanished almost as quickly as it had come, and V was grateful. Another kick to his loins and he might have killed her after all from the sheer force of his own pain.

Evey cried against him and V stroked her hair, sighing as the strangling pain between his legs began to subside. His blood boiled with bitterness, but he kept it well-restrained. He was not at all angry with the frightened girl in his arms. Rather, he hated himself for behaving so foolishly. Life and death were no laughing matters, and who the hell was he to toy with them, or to bully his beloved Evey into despair and with zeal, no less? It had never once occurred to him that Evey might fear the power of his hand against her. He suddenly feared his own hand without her hand to hold.

Evey sniffled as the tears died away and she settled against his chest. V was hesitant, too conscious of how his arms were around her, wishing only to wrap more of himself around her, though apprehensive of the moment she would finally pull away at last and abandon his heart. Yet, as Evey sighed and rested her forehead on the nape of his neck, V's arms reflexively tightened around her. He closed his eyes and dipped his head to hers, memorizing the way she felt against him. If this was the last time he held her, he wanted to remember it forever. And if ever there was a moment that V could feel his heart crumble, this was it.

V's breathing stilled as he attempted to breath through his nose and he tasted blood again, a lot of it this time in the back of his throat. He straightened slightly, slowly reaching up to touch the front of his mask, just below the nose. There was blood there and on his lips as he parted them to speak. "Bugger," he grunted quietly, swearing nonchalantly, as if nothing at all was the matter but his bloody nose. He could feel a small stream trailing down his skin. He pressed his neck covering and swallowed against its cool stickiness.

Evey had asked him what was wrong, which nearly brought V to exasperated tears and uncontrollable laughter at the same time. He muttered her name, and she sat up to look at him, gasping at what must have been a ghastly sight. The look that washed over her face and the whispered, "Oh, V," was proof enough. She looked sorry, yet didn't verbalize it. He didn't need her to. He didn't even _want_ her to. He deserved a sound beating after what he had done to her, and this was hardly satisfactory.

V caught the sight of blood on Evey's fingers as she lifted her hand to the mask. He grabbed her wrist roughly with his free hand, no longer holding her body to his own, no longer needing to. "Relax. It's mine," she told him, pulling her arm from him, looking surprised when he let her go. V remembered that first time that he'd found her with his blood on her hands, that first time she had seen who he really was beneath the mask: an angry, violent madman. He took her hand again, gentler this time, brushing the cuts on her knuckles with the tips of his leather clad fingertips. Wounds that she had inflicted upon herself as she had tried, and had clearly succeeded, to hurt him.

V requested that Evey let him bandage her hands, but not now while he was bleeding so readily. He wiped his sleeved wrist against the mask, staring down at the ruined shirt with a sigh. It was his favorite shirt. Like most things, ruined. Like this moment. He would have to ask her to move, to leave him alone so that he could assess what he imagined was a badly smashed nose and a fat lip. He wondered if things would be okay now. He wondered if Evey had forgiven him as she had so many times before, or if, the moment he let go of her, she would shut him out.

V looked down at her little hands clasped in his larger ones. He was shaking in his doubly failed attempt to push her away and pull her nearer, watching Evey's movement as she took a hand from his and directed his chin up so that he would look at her. "Let me-- Let me see, V," she demanded softly, stronger the second time after he turned the mask away. It was a useless request, since there was clearly nothing to see, but after a moment he turned back to face her anyway. He would do anything she asked him, he realized, if she forgave him and looked at him like she did now forever. Those soulful brown eyes held caring concern, and he felt momentarily forgiven. Evey reached to the mask again, and V knew that he wouldn't stop her if she tried to remove it. "Is it your nose? What can I do to--"

"Nothing," he answered sharply, but he was lying. Anything she _would _do was more than what he could demand from her, more than could be required of her help. _What _will_ you do_?_ Not what _can_ you do. What _will_ you...?_ he wanted to ask, to instigate that game again, this time with the hope of the chance for redemption. He couldn't find his voice. Not for those words, anyway.

"It is not as if I can merely pinch my nostrils and wait for it to end, my love," V told her, the words harsh at first but ebbing down into a gentle caress. _My love. _He stared at her, watching her eyes flit across the mask, searching for his own eyes. If Evey caught the implication of his words, that the face of Fawkes must be removed and that _she could do it_-- she put no action to the thought. Slowly, her hands fell down from his face, and back into his hands as she looked down.

"I must excuse myself," V stated finally, sadly, and Evey nodded. This was it then. Evey was going to move away from him and V from her, and then he would know where they stood. Together or apart. Just in case, before Evey could move away from him, V wrapped his arm around her and pulled her against him. "Evey, my dearest love," he whispered in her ear, "Listen well, I beg of you." He pulled away to look at her, wishing she could see his gaze, how strongly he meant these words: "I will _never_ do _anything _to harm you, Evey Hammond. Your smile is the only thing that lights these dull, lifeless tunnels." _And my dim existence. _He brushed a few strands of hair behind her ear before taking a deep breath and continuing. "I am _not_ going to kill you."

Evey held his gaze and nodded. Without a word, she stood, offering him a hand to help him up. He took it, but stood on his own. He withheld a groan. It hurt to stand; his bruised pelvis ached almost as much as his throbbing nose and lip. As V steadied himself on his feet, Evey took a slight step away from him, staring at him in concern.

V stared back at her, waiting for it to happen, that moment that would make or break them. Evey didn't move, so V did. He inched closer to her, this time with a slight limp to his step. He muttered an irritated 'bollocks' under his breath as he reached to wipe away a smudge of blood on her cheek. Evey flinched and quickly move away, reaching to where his fingers had nearly touched her. "I'll take care of it, just let me go," she whispered, hurried. V gasped softly as Evey quickly turned away and disappeared down the hall to her private bathroom. He could hear Evey's sobs reach a crescendo as she shut the bathroom door. She undoubtedly locked that door as well.

"There it is," V whispered, resigned to his fate. He lost her more with every step she had taken away from him, and now he was certain that he would never again have her in his arms. A small part of him told him it was for the best, but he cynically wondered dimly for whom. Certainly not for the next poor sucker to cross his path. He had an ironic urge to _kill_ something.

V made a slow retreat for the confines of his own private sanctuary, their shared refuge now built upon unholy ground. He removed his mask and tossed it into the sink in his locked bathroom, then looked into the mirror. And laughed. He looked like an animal, his features seeming more jagged than normal, accentuated by the blood the leaked from his bent nose, that colored his perfect teeth. He stripped and filled the tub with water, laying stiffly against the cold porcelain tub while he chuckled and waited for the hot water to rise around him. _By the power of truth... _

Perhaps it _would_ be easier to continue without that persistent want and concern for Evey. She was too much of a risk, as was V to her if their parting was any indication. Several questions remained, however: just how much of a risk? and was V willing to find out? For her sake, he vowed to discover just how much peril he had exposed her to biologically, for they had already crossed a few potentially dangerous barriers and he still feared that she might be in danger of him. He scolded himself for not thinking to check before, but amongst the few kisses and skin-to-skin, blood-to-skin contact they had shared between them, it hadn't really occurred to him that it might continue to happen. He _had _to know now. Were his happiest moment likely to kill her? He made a mental note to look into it as soon as possible. And then, perhaps, it would be wise to assess to what degree their involvement was hazardous to the other, as well as to themselves. He sighed and sank into the water.

_Perhaps you made the wrong choice then, _V's inner demon whispered into the memory._ Perhaps you should have killed her._

-----

Sorry for any confusion on the chapter order. I can't seem to make up my mind, but I've finally got things figured out. I promise! I think... Heh.

Sadly, I'm looking down the time line that is unfolding before me and I can tell you right now, this is only going to get worse. It seems that along with the V that is transfixed in my mind (and Rorschach, but he's another problem altogether), Rossiter has also decided to take up residence. And for those of you who know who he is... *shakes her head* I'm so screwed! Hahaha

I wanted to say thanks to Villana81 for inadvertently reminding me in her review to make a note that I obviously borrowed some of the dialogue from the film, but also from the novelization of the film, particularly the extension of the 'Are you going to kill more people?' conversation, though the quarrel and aftermath are my creations.

It is finally officially summer time, so I will be around much more and will be writing every chance I get! If there's anybody out there who is still reading these, I'd love to hear from you! Also, those readers who have stuck with this all along, I hope you've enjoyed what I've come up with so far, and I have planned for the future... Because I have a _lot_ planned. I'm already planning the sequel to this fic: The Show Must Go On. Enjoy!


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